November Rain

by Donald Harstad

  “Nonsense,” had been interjected by Mr. Kazan. “Our method will add realism.”

  “Your method,” said Northwood, “will add ten years. Piss off.”

  Imad looked astonished. Mr. Kazan, however, merely smiled and said, “It is always good to know the true nature of your associates, Mr. Northwood. Thank you for your frankness.”

  Early the next morning, Professor Robert Northwood had been awakened in his own bed by three men dressed in dark clothing, and wearing ski masks. One was sitting on either side of his bed, very effectively trapping him under his covers. The third stood near his head, looking at him with very intense eyes. Every light in his bedroom was on.

  “You are the Professor Northwood?” asked the third one, in a flat voice.

  Northwood thought he was going to vomit, but managed to say that he was.

  “Mr. Kazan wishes us to tell you this,” the man said, slowly and with the distinct appearance of a student reciting from memory. “The plan will go the way he decides. You need not be on tape. You will persuade the woman. He further wishes you to confirm to us that you agree to this.”

  Northwood, absolutely terrified, was simply unable to speak. The man apparently took this to mean that he was hesitating to agree to the conditions.

  “Do not be a fool. You can have many happy years.”

  There was no display of weapons. None was needed. Robert Northwood would say later that he had never seen anyone so convincing in his entire life.

  “Tell Mr. Ka, ka, ka, Kazan,” Northwood got out, “I agree.”

  The man leaned forward and kissed him on his forehead.

  “Good night. Sleep well, Professor.”

  With that, and without another word, the three calmly and deliberately turned out the various lights, and very quietly left the room.

  Since that night, Northwood had lost eight pounds from his spare frame, had slept fitfully at best, and had gone to his chemist and obtained several packets of anti-diarrheal medication, which he took daily. He had also obtained an old cudgel, intending to keep it near his bed, but had thought better of it. He strongly suspected that they would simply use it to beat him to death.

  Professor Northwood now secretly hoped that all this was only being done to test his sincerity and that of his cell members, and that the whole enterprise would be abandoned as soon as they showed they could perform the tasks successfully. How he hoped that was to be the case.

  There had been huge changes in the London Movement for the Freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous since its formation a few months ago. Things had become so much more intense and serious. The first major event had been a sudden change in Hanadi/Ayat. She had become much more withdrawn, more anti-western in her conversation, and had been developing a near obsession with her duty to her family. He had no idea why. His chances of becoming involved with her seemed to have evaporated. He knew from bitter experience that any relationship with a woman that committed to a cause was doomed. He would be nothing more than a distraction. It was, he thought, a shame.

  Imad had also changed, and had become more dogmatic and less purely political in his approach. They had printed one article in a local paper, which had been received as well as could have been expected, and which had prompted the Northwood to believe that they would continue until they had generated enough interest to stage a protest outside Belmarsh Prison. It was not to be. Both Imad and Ayat had begun to make increasingly anti-British and anti-US statements, concentrating on the state of the war in Iraq. At the same time, anti-Jewish feelings, coupled with enormously strong pro-Palestinian sentiments were being expressed by Hanadi/Ayat, in particular. Northwood/Marwan had no idea what had prompted these changes, and if his opinion of himself had been a little more realistic, he would have realized that he had completely lost control of the London Movement for the Freedom of Khaled al Fawwaz and Ibrahim Eidarous. More to the point, the Movement had taken on an urgency that bewildered him. Regardless, he refused to acknowledge his own bewilderment, preferring to believe that he had some control over matters.

  It was that belief in his control that had prompted him to suggest taking a hostage, of sorts, and using that person to demand the release of the prisoners. Staged, of course. He had not actually believed that the proposed course of action would be undertaken. That was the moment that he’d completely lost control of the group, the moment that Northwood/Marwan had failed.

  Now, trying not to stare at the other man in his flat, he once again tried to decide just who this Mr. Kazan really was. He new absolutely nothing about the man, other than he had been introduced to him by Imad. He seemed rather educated, Northwood thought, although certainly not of his own intellectual stature. He appeared to be of Arabic extraction, although Northwood/Marwan could not be positive. He’d sought him out in the telephone book, to no avail.

  Interestingly, it never occurred to him that, while he was not using his real name, Mr. Kazan might have been doing the same.

  Another aspect of this evening that made him edgy was that the two times they’d met previously, Mr. Kazan had been accompanied by a bodyguard. Yet, on this night, Mr. Kazan had apparently come to Marwan’s flat on his own. He caught himself surreptitiously checking the bedroom door, as if Mr. Kazan’s bodyguard would have been able to let himself in through the third floor window. He was painfully aware that this selfsame bodyguard could very likely have been one of the intruders in his bedroom. This was not the way he’d envisioned things the night they’d organized their movement. Not at all. Yet to acknowledge his growing fear would also have been to acknowledge his failure. Unacceptable.

  They waited in silence.

  They waited twenty-two minutes, with the only sound between them being the lighting of a cigarette by Mr. Kazan and then the very faint, bell-like ring produced as he periodically knocked the ashes into the Waterford bowl he had commandeered as an ashtray.

  When Marwan’s cell phone rang, the noise was startling. He unfolded the instrument and placed it to his ear.

  “Yes?” He listened for a few moments. “Yes, exactly at 8:40.” He listened again, and then spoke sharply. “You will wait all night if necessary. Is that clear?”

  He closed the phone. “She seems to be late.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Kazan, calmly. He inhaled deeply. “You have their number?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Kazan looked at the VCR. It was 10:18 PM. “You will call them at midnight, and suspend the operation.”

  Northwood/Marwan started to feel relief. God is good, he thought. This is merely a test, after all.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Kazan, as he leaned forward and put out his cigarette in the expensive bowl, “that is if you have not received a positive contact by then.”

  That was a jarring note, canceling Northwood/Marwan’s relief. In a bizarre moment, he found himself concerned that the heat from Kazan’s cigarette might crack the Waterford bowl. He was surprised at the shallowness of his thinking under stress. “Certainly. One must never lose hope. Until then, may I offer you something? To eat or drink?”

  “No,” replied Mr. Kazan.

  “I have some excellent coffee,” he said, forcing a smile. “Mazbuta? And with cardamom . . .”

  “Then drink some,” said Mr. Kazan, abruptly. He settled back in the chair, and stared out the window.

  Northwood/Marwan knew that from Mr. Kazan’s vantage point at this time of night, all he could possibly be seeing was the illuminated night haze, or the reflection of the room itself in the window glass. Nonetheless, Mr. Kazan’s gaze was that of a man watching something of great interest. It didn’t dawn on Northwood/Marwan that Mr. Kazan might be watching him in the reflection.

  “I shall,” he said, moving into the modern kitchen and hating the feeling that he was being intimidated and ordered about in his own flat. He told himself that he would not have let this happen had Imad not divulged to him that he had been summoned home to help fight the infidels and that in his absence Marwan
would be wise to tread lightly around Mr. Kazan. He remembered Imad’s exact phrase: “He is of another generation.” Somehow, over the last several months, he’d never thought that Imad might be returning to the Middle East, and especially not to do battle against British or American troops. A man could very easily be killed doing that. Nor, he thought ruefully, had he expected to find himself in the middle of a real terrorist operation. Especially one of his own invention. He, too, could get killed, and right here in London. Except, he reminded himself, for the fact that this was merely a test. He was very certain of that, and very certain of his intellectual superiority over this Kazan fellow. Pass the test, he thought, maintain your membership for a couple of months, and then resign.

  The fact that Imad had lied to him, and was not leaving London, was one of several things that never occurred to him.

  As he poured the powdered coffee beans into the pot, and put two cups of bottled water into the microwave, he remembered how impressed Imad had been that he made coffee in the traditional way. He’d never told anyone that he’d learned to do that only to impress Imad and his friends.

  Now, he was regretting, not his infatuation for Hanadi, but the method he’d chosen to approach her. Perhaps she might have been as interested if he had remained . . . That line of thinking could get him killed, in his present circumstances. He had always been able to maneuver his way through situations, but only by staying alert and focused.

  Glancing into the living room, he couldn’t help thinking that Mr. Kazan reminded him of an old sentinel staring out over the great wastes of some desert. Alert, but stone bored. Ageing, alert, bored and boring, and a thoroughgoing bastard, he thought. Just some great lump of a poisonous toad. “Suspend the operation,” indeed. How much more vague could he have been?

  “If we hear nothing by midnight, will we simply postpone, then, or call it off altogether?” He spoke more loudly in order to overcome the sound of the microwave. Even so, he thought his voice betrayed no tension at all, as far as he could tell. It was an effort to keep it that way.

  “When the time comes . . . ,” said Mr. Kazan, and picked up a book from the coffee table. He hadn’t bothered to raise his voice, and Marwan had to strain to catch what he said.

  “Of course.” The toad was obviously playing this game out to the very end. Or, maybe the toad didn’t know what to do. Now out of the line of sight of Mr. Kazan’s back, he looked at his watch. 10:24. Nearly ninety minutes to go. He found himself praying that midnight would come, and the operation would be cancelled. It had to be cancelled. This was, after all, merely a test. The alarm on the microwave went off, and he poured the water into the pot. If Imad had been present to be impressed, he would have boiled it on the stove.

  He knew he never should have suggested this plan to his Imad in the first place, and cursed himself for being an ingratiating bastard. He’d dreamt it up just to impress and amuse him, late one night as they sat up discussing political things. He’d never remotely imagined that it would not only be implemented, but commanded by the likes of Mr. Kazan.

  Nonsense, he said to himself. It’s just a test. Don’t let them get at you this way.

  He returned to the living room, and sat stiffly on the couch with his demi tasse. He raised it to head level, and said “Fi sehtuk.” He knew he’d made a mistake as soon as he said it.

  “Keep to your English,” snapped Mr. Kazan, taking his eyes off the vast empty space that was the London night sky, and glaring at his host.

  “Your health,” said Marwan, refusing to be further intimidated. He took a sip, and smacked his lips in a defiant gesture he somehow felt was lost on Mr. Kazan.

  Mr. Kazan held up the book he’d been leafing through. It was entitled The London Beneath Your Feet. “This is a very interesting book,” he said. He put it down.

  “It’s a hobby, of sorts,” said Northwood. “The tube, the sewers, the cable ducting.”

  “I saw,” said Mr. Kazan, lighting another cigarette.

  “I’m writing a book on this subject, myself,” said Northwood/Marwan.

  “So Imad tells me,” said Mr. Kazan.

  “I have old plans . . . would you care to see them?”

  “No.”

  Small talk, thought Northwood, was utterly wasted on Mr. Kazan. He glanced at his watch. It was 10:40. He took another sip of coffee, savoring the taste, and nearly spilled it when his cell phone rang. He experienced a dreadful sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been hoping that they’d miss her altogether.

  Carefully, he put down the little cup, and opened the phone after the third ring. “Yes?” He listened for a moment, put his hand over the phone, and said, “They have her.” That sounded squeaky, so he cleared his throat, and said, “Sorry, it’s the coffee . . . they have her, now,” in a much calmer voice.

  Mr. Kazan regarded him closely. He nodded. “Good.”

  “We continue?”

  Mr. Kazan sighed. “Yes.”

  “You’re serious?”

  Mr. Kazan just stared at him.

  Northwood/Marwan spoke into the phone. “Proceed,” he managed. He heard an acknowledgment, and closed his phone. He felt fear again, fear for his own life, and fear of the future. This had gone dreadfully wrong. He was secretly astounded that Anton and Hamza had been able to actually capture the girl. They were so, well, inept and amateurish. He chose to ignore his own amateur standing because to do otherwise would rob him of any illusion of control. The survivor in him, more the realist, began scrambling. He took another sip of coffee, and noticed that his hand was steady. Did that really mean anything? He’d always heard that a steady hand implied strong nerves.

  There was silence in the flat. It dragged on for several seconds, and Northwood/Marwan very nearly committed suicide by confiding to Mr. Kazan that he thought it all a rather silly plan, and that they should just try to stop now before things got out of hand. Otherwise he would have to go to the police. Fortunately for him, Mr. Kazan spoke before he could form the right words.

  “I am wondering that you indicate such indecision. Imad has a high regard for you. I will tell you that I attribute it to the newness of the situation. That is how I shall say it in my report.”

  “Thank you,” said Marwan. It was all he could think to say.

  “It would be good if you made your family proud,” said Mr. Kazan, softly. “I shall inform Ayat that the operation is under way.” He lowered his voice. “See to it that nothing happens to her. She is of inestimable value.” He raised his voice. “I am ready.”

  There was an immediate knock on the door, and it opened, revealing the familiar bodyguard who had accompanied Mr. Kazan on the two previous occasions. He must have been standing just outside all the while. Marwan was somewhat taken aback, having locked the door himself after Mr. Kazan had entered.

  Mr. Kazan stood. “I will contact you tomorrow, in the evening.” He looked very intently at Marwan. “Follow your procedures to the letter.”

  With that, he walked to the door and left. The bodyguard leaned back into the room, smiled at Marwan, and made a show of locking the door before he pulled it closed behind him.

  Marwan sat abruptly on the couch. “Emma . . . Emma, it is for a good purpose,” he said. “But I am truly sorry.” He took a deep breath, held it, and released. Exactly what had Mr. Kazan meant by his last statement? Procedures? What procedures? It wasn’t as if they had a bloody manual. If the old bastard hadn’t been so intimidating, he would have asked him. And what was that about his bloody family? Could the old bastard actually know some of them? Nothing seemed impossible.

  Hanadi would know. He’d just follow her lead. It would be a simple matter of a kidnapping, a statement, and then the release of the hostage. It would go smoothly, and without undue risk to anyone, including Emma Schiller. After all, he was in charge, and he would arrange things that way.

  Chapter 4

  Monday, November 10, 2003

  Maitland, Nation County, IA, USA

 
; 13:32 Central Standard Time

  On Monday, November 10, 2003, I was in my office at the Nation County Sheriff’s Department, taking advantage of a really slow couple of weeks to get caught up on my paperwork. I’d already finished my last two residential burglary reports, and was getting ready to tackle eleven incidents of mailbox vandalism, all along a five mile stretch of the same gravel road, when my intercom line buzzed.

  I answered it with, “Yo.” I mean, it was the intercom. The call couldn’t be from the public.

  It was Norma, our new secretary. “Carl, the Sheriff would like to see you in his office.”

  That was a little unusual. Not that he wanted to see me, but the fact that he had Norma call, and that she had referred to him by his title instead of just calling him Lamar. Lamar Ridgeway, the Sheriff, normally just walked down the hall to my office, or just stuck his head out of his office and shouted. His office was only fifty feet away.

  “Okay. Just a sec,” I said, curious. “Gotta save my work . . . .” I’d picked up the faint hiss that told me her phone was on speaker mode, and that she wasn’t talking into a handset. That usually meant that Lamar had the door between their offices open, so he could hear my response. That also meant that any possible guests of his could hear every word I said. Her desk was just outside his door.

  As I clicked on the ‘save’ icon, I decided Lamar probably had an important guest, and wanted to impress ’em by not shouting to me through his open door and having Norma use his title. I’m not the Department’s investigator for nothing. My experience had also taught me that when Lamar seemed to be on his best, civilized, behavior it was not always a good thing.

  Lamar has the only nice office in the Department. By that, I mean the curtains and the carpet sort of go together; he has a high backed leather captain’s chair, and a big desk that’s the only one in the office that’s not US Government surplus, and is made of real wood. Not only that, he has our complete inventory of furniture manufactured since 1975, including three matching guest chairs and a matching couch. He used to have a coffee table, but he’d replaced it with an old 48 inch cable reel from the County Shop. He’d done that just so he could tell people that he didn’t believe in wasting anything bought with taxpayer’s money.